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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411406">masks they slide to reveal a new disguise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo'>escherzo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, MAG186 Spoilers, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-cest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course he's thought about it. It's a joke, something Tim would have come up with as an icebreaker when they were all down the pub back in the old days, <i>would you ever bang your clone?</i> Martin would have stammered and said no because the Martin he was showing to the world back then was much too soft, much too safe, to stare Tim down and say yes. Too afraid of what everyone else would think; too afraid of driving them away to be honest. Even for a silly thing like that. </p><p>There's not much point in lying to <i>himself.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Martin Blackwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>masks they slide to reveal a new disguise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Look, I shook AO3 real hard and no explicit Martincest fell out. <i>Somebody</i> had to do it.</p><p>Unbetaed, very much written on the fly, sorry not sorry.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin takes another sip of oolong, trying to settle the cold from his bones, and Other Martin watches him carefully. The rain is still misting down, chilling him and making every breath feel fresh and crisp like a perfect autumn day, the sky grey and thick with clouds and the breeze full of droplets. He's always liked it; he's always pretended he didn't. A lovely melancholy. </p><p>“Thanks for the tea,” Martin says, reflective, and then hands the thermos cap back to Other Martin. “I should be going.” </p><p>“You don't want to,” Other Martin says.</p><p>“I <i>do</i>.” </p><p>“Well,” Other Martin amends, and his smile goes a little sly. “Not just yet. Look, I'm you, remember? I know you're thinking about it.”</p><p>“Thinking about what,” Martin says flatly. </p><p>“You've had dreams like this.”</p><p>“Yeah, <i>weird</i> ones,” Martin says, trying to ignore the way his face is already starting to heat, and Other Martin just—watches him, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his hands clench and unclench into fists. Of course he's thought about it. It's a joke, something Tim would have come up with as an icebreaker when they were all down the pub back in the old days, <i>would you ever bang your clone?</i> Martin would have stammered and said no because the Martin he was showing to the world back then was much too soft, much too safe, to stare Tim down and say yes. Too afraid of what everyone else would think; too afraid of driving them away to be honest. Even for a silly thing like that. </p><p>There's not much point in lying to <i>himself.</i> </p><p>“... Fine,” he says, and turns to face Other Martin properly, hands grabbing for the collar of his shirt to yank him in close, no gentleness to it at all. He likes that with Jon; this isn't Jon. He knows what he's about, and when Other Martin's eyes go a little wider, his cheeks going pink, he thinks for a moment about what a strange thing it is, to surprise himself. </p><p>Other Martin is the one who closes the distance, in the end. The rain is slicking their hair back and they both tilt their heads just right, perfect mirrors of each other, as their mist-slicked lips collide, and Martin takes a harsh breath into his own mouth and closes his eyes. It would be like a scene in a movie, if this was Jon. <i>This isn't Jon,</i> he thinks, and slides his fingers into the white curls of his double's hair and pulls them tight, opening his mouth against him, all heat and teeth and slow movements of their tongues together, and he would be embarrassed about the little huffing noises he was making into the kiss if there was anyone but him around to hear. </p><p>He had a kiss like this once, when he was young. It was a spur of the moment thing—the boy did not kiss back, and drew away from him with wide eyes before he ran, and Martin was left, staring out into the foggy distance as his bones soaked with rain and his heart sank. He sighs, a little knot of pain in his chest forming that he wants to rub at, as though he could massage it away.</p><p>“Even the good things get tinged with memory, remember?” his double says, and he rolls his eyes, bites back the <i>yes, yes, I know</i>, and sinks to the ground, pulling his double down with him into the dewy grass. Their clothes will be soaked, after all of this, and he laughs a little, because absolutely nothing in him can bring him to care about that. Other Martin smiles at him, soft, a tinge of sadness in it that never quite fades, and crawls on top of him, pinning his hands to the ground. He flexes his fingers, but doesn't fight it, lets his double press him down to the earth with his body weight, a thick thigh between his. He leans up for another kiss, clumsier than the first, and the thought of <i>his lips are so soft</i> makes him laugh a little again. There is no outright happiness here—that's not what this place is for—but it has its moments. </p><p>Other Martin bites his lip and then takes it between his teeth, letting it drag a little, and the soft, sharp bit of pain goes through Martin like a shock, his whole body lighting up with it. The heat curls down his spine and he presses up into his double's leg between his thighs, grinding against him unsteadily, four layers of fabric between them, and the friction is painful and delicious in its pain. Other Martin rocks down against him in return, and he can feel the growing hardness against his hip, the way his double's face goes a little pinched as he half-stifles a quiet moan, and it's so strange, he cannot stop thinking about how strange this is, that he is looking directly into his own face as arousal takes it over, the way his own eyes go dark, the way his own lips look when they're well-kissed. </p><p>“I'd say let me, but, well,” Other Martin says, exasperatingly smug as he leaves a last lingering, wet kiss against Martin's mouth and then slides down his body, sitting back in the damp grass to start working at the button of Martin's trousers. </p><p>“Yes, yes, you don't need to,” Martin says, and he's halfway through rolling his eyes—Christ, is he this exasperating to people? Surely not—when Other Martin's hand slips under his waistband properly and then all he can do is moan as big hands fit into the grooves at his hipbones and dig in, teasing at him. He lifts his hips to help, because how can he <i>not?</i>, and Other Martin's fingers fumble at his zip and then pull his trousers and boxers both down in one motion, the sudden slide of fabric against sensitized skin making Martin shudder. The grass is cool and wet against his skin, and he shivers for an entirely different reason, but then the cold shock of the night air against his straining cock is replaced by the burning, slick heat of his double's mouth. </p><p>Other Martin lingers at the head at first, mouthing over it, his tongue dipping into his slit, and Martin flails, gripping at the grass and then reaching out for other Martin's hair to steady himself, hips pushing up into it frantically. Christ, it's been <i>so long</i> since he's done this; he and Jon mostly didn't, before the change, and after—well, there was Upton House, the one moment of peace this world has allowed him, but it feels like it's been a century since then at this stage. Other Martin's mouth is hot, so hot, compared to the chill of the world around them, and he makes a show of it, dragging his lips along the side of Martin's cock slow and steady, red against the flushed skin of his cock, and Martin is halfway tempted to beg himself. Does he need to? It seems pointless – surely he knows what he needs. </p><p>But then, he <i>has</i> always liked making people beg for it. </p><p>“Fine,” he bites out eventually, breath gone ragged, watching his double's tongue flick out over the head of his cock and then close around it, but going no further. “<i>Please</i>.” </p><p>“Please what?” his double prompts. </p><p>“You know perfectly well please what, and I'm not saying my <i>own</i> name, that's weird and you know it.” </p><p>“Point taken,” Other Martin says agreeably, and pins Martin's hips to the ground with both hands, putting his weight behind it, before sinking down the entire length of his cock in one go, an agonizingly slow slide, and Martin's hips twitch, trying so hard to push up into it, to get him <i>deeper</i>, to feel more of the heat of that wide mouth, but his double is just as strong as he is, and all he can do is lie there and moan, eyes going unfocused as he stares up into the featureless grey skies. He reaches out, fingers fumbling, to twist them into Other Martin's hair and hold tight, keeping him deep, and when he looks down his double's eyes are beading with tears. He's not a pretty crier; never has been, but it makes a little shock of arousal go through Martin at the sight anyway.</p><p>Other Martin hums around him, a little speculative noise, like he's always tried to do with other people because he's read about it being a thing and always felt a little silly for. If this is how it felt, he understands why no one ever called him on it; the vibrations sink into his bones and make him moan, loud and unsteady, and his fingers tighten in his double's hair until it <i>has</i> to hurt. He bobs his head up and down, seemingly oblivious to the pain—or maybe just used to it—and finally lets go of Martin's hips a little, just long enough to fumble his own trousers open one-handed and tuck a hand underneath to wrap around his own cock, and Martin's hips push up a little, gently fucking into his mouth now that he can. </p><p>“It's a lot,” he tells Other Martin, his voice unsteady, going high and thready at the end, and he winces at the sound of it, but then Other Martin pushes deep again, surrounding him with warmth, and his cock twitches hard, his whole world going blurry with pleasure for a moment. He can feel his <i>toes</i> tingling, his hands too; he's holding his breath just a little, and it makes everything twice as intense. He's close, holding onto going over the edge by a thread, and it won't take much. It feels selfish to not warn himself, but if there is ever a moment where he can be selfish, it feels like it might be this. “Please,” he manages again, before he loses words entirely, and he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath and his whole world goes starry-bright as he comes, deep in his double's mouth, so deep it aches. His double pulls off slowly, eyes blurry with tears and nose red, his spit-slicked lips a bruised ruin, and he licks over the head of Martin's cock before he pulls off, cleaning the last remnants of his come. </p><p>“My turn,” his double says, and when he sits back on his heels, shoving his trousers down to mid-thigh to expose his cock, already hard and leaking, Martin needs no prompting to nod and curl in on his lap and sink down, one hand braced on his hip, the other wrapped around his cock. It's so familar—god, it's so familiar, it's like touching himself, and he thinks of himself, alone in his apartment, hand moving under the sheets as he tried so hard not to think about Jon, about pinning Jon down and leaving him a wreck afterwards, covered in little bites and hickeys and come. The angle is wrong, but he knows what he likes, and so when Other Martin fucks into his mouth just a little, he relaxes into it, letting his double fuck his face slow and steady. It feels like it only takes minutes, just long enough for Martin to sink into the rhythm entirely, no thoughts but the pressure of Other Martin's cock in his mouth and hands in his hair and the warmth of their shared body heat, before Other Martin comes, flooding his mouth, and Martin half-coughs as he pulls off, wrinkling his nose a little at the taste but licking his double clean anyway, one hand going up to wipe the spit from the corners of his mouth where it's started to gather. </p><p>“Feel better?” Other Martin asks, his voice still shaky.</p><p>“Much, thanks,” Martin croaks out, settling back onto his heels and then twisting around to look for his discarded trousers. Christ, they're going to be soaked. He hopes it's not obvious what he's been up to when Jon finds him again. Maybe Jon was looking; it's not really his thing, so much, but he's always been so curious. </p><p>“I'd better get back to him,” he says eventually as he stands, wiggling his damp boxers and trousers back over his legs and cursing his past self for not wearing baggier clothing. </p><p>“Yeah,” Other Martin agrees. “I'm kind of surprised he hasn't showed up already.” </p><p>Martin hefts his pack back onto his shoulders and nods to himself. “I'm sure he'll find us eventually,” he says, and five steps forward, he turns back for a moment, just to meet his own eyes one last time. </p><p>“Good luck,” his double says, and he nods. There's a world out there that needs fixing; he's lingered long enough.</p>
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